


Lament in Four Parts

by livingvakariouslythroughyou (supercow585)



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Defenders Post-Series Gift Exchange 2017, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mostly Canon Compliant, Moving On, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, but I did take some liberties with backstory details, just to fill in the gaps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12230106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercow585/pseuds/livingvakariouslythroughyou
Summary: A gift for spacenarwhal based on the prompt: Stick & Matt & Elektra, before and after (dealing with Stick's death).





	Lament in Four Parts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacenarwhal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/gifts).



It’s a strong and strange sort of deja vu that comes over Elektra when she draws her blade above the old man’s chest. It’s enough to shake her back into her body, enough to remind her of who she is. Who she _really_ is, beneath all of the fog that lingers in her mind, trying to convince her she is nothing more than the strength and fury and bloodlust dancing in her veins. The strength and fury and bloodlust of the _Black Sky_. But as she once again looks down into the old man’s face, the past - _her_ past- comes to her in flashes. And she finds herself captivated by the highlight reel of a life that is foreign and distant as much as it is painfully familiar.

One flash takes her back to many months ago, during a fight with the Hand where she stood on the opposite side of the battle and fought with all of her will to keep from giving in to the darker side of herself. The side that had suspected all along that she was different. She remembers the slow, crawling burn of betrayal that bloomed in her stomach and the white-hot flood of fury in her veins as she accepted the truth that had so long been kept from her by a man she had once trusted implicitly. A man she had recently come to understand, should never have been trusted in the first place. She remembers how hard she tried to kill him then, despite the small part of her heart which still wanted to reach out to him, like a child to her father. A menacing smirk starts to curl the corner of her mouth up at the idea that she will now have the chance to right this oversight.

But then another wave of memories hits her, taking her further back into the past. In this flash, she remembers almost being an adult, just finishing school when Stick came back for her. All the way to Greece, from god-knows-where he had been for so long. She remembers him brushing off the awe and joy she tried to express at seeing him, after fearing they’d never be together again. She remembers how he had immediately spoken of the coming war, with no heart-felt greeting, no preamble of any kind. He wasted no time in attempting to recruit her to fight alongside him against the Hand, as if no time had passed since he left her alone with a strange new family a decade earlier. But she had been so shocked, so relieved, so indescribably _happy_ to see him again, that she forgave him without a second thought, even though he never admitted to doing something worth an apology.

And like an electric shock, one more wave of memories hits her, sharper and harder than the rest. This time she remembers even further back, to when Stick found her in an orphanage and took her to the compound. She remembers being ten years old and training with him for hours until her feet were blistered and her knuckles were bloody. She remembers with surprisingly clarity the _moment_ things went wrong, and how this man- one for whom she has such conflicting emotions- took her hand in his as he led them on a frantic escape. She remembers being confused as they ran from people who had suddenly become their enemies, though she had no inclination as to why.

And now that the gate is open, her memories continue to flow freely, one into another. Next, she remembers the indecipherable passing of time as they rode countless boats and trains and planes in their attempts to flee the members of the Chaste that he was certain were hunting them. They were always heading to the next checkpoint, the next “safe” place, only to pick up months, weeks, days later and start running again. But in the midst of the blurry memories of long and arduous days that all seem to run together, she does have a handful of bright, beautiful memories of traveling and seeing the world with him by her side. And the clearest, most vivid memory of all is the memory of the joy she felt at seeing the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean for the first time, with salt on the air and a breeze in her face. But immediately following, there is a strikingly clear, brutally strong memory, one of the most intense that she can ever remember having. It’s a memory of a terribly painful goodbye- the first of many he would ask her to make over the course of her life. And she has to shake her head at the rush of emotions, and the unsettling sense of familiarity she feels, because she is not here to remember; she is here to set things right. And this goodbye feels nothing like that one did. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.

Because this goodbye is final. There will never be another like it. It isn’t lingering or painful. It doesn’t lodge in her chest or make her choke around overwhelming emotion. It’s been a long time coming, and it’s like a sigh of relief to know that the time has finally come, once and for all. It’s the end to a chapter of her life that she is more than ready to call finished.

But this goodbye is also a beginning. Because the chapter that starts as soon as she pierces his chest with her blade is one that she is writing of her own free will. No more outside influences, no one telling her what to do. This is how she knows she is herself, and this is how she will keep the fog from creeping back in. With this action, she lives for no one but herself. Now and ever after.

She raises the blade higher, muscles tensing as she prepares to strike, but then she hears a voice calling out to her.

“Elektra!”

And she pauses. Because she knows instantly to whom that voice belongs. And without a conscious thought about it, she finds herself feeling glad. It’s a funny twist of fate, but having Matthew here is the last piece of the puzzle she needed before she could act. Because the only way for this chapter to feel truly complete, like the kind of new beginning it should be, is to have him here to witness the transformation as it happens. But then he opens his mouth.

“Listen to me.” He seems so desperate, so concerned for her, and she finds herself fighting a battle to drop her hands to her sides and walk toward him. Instead, she finds his name escaping her lips under her breath.

“Matthew.”

“You don’t have to do this. Alright? You don’t belong to them. This is not who you are.”

“It’s good to see you.”

For a moment, she is dangerously close to agreeing with him. And she wonders if it’s only now, standing before him in this instant that she’s truly herself. If the fury driving her to kill the man on the ground in front of her doesn’t actually belong to her-Elektra Natchios- as attractive as it may feel. His presence gives her a different kind of clarity, and she is suddenly consumed by the idea that she doesn’t need to kill this old man, just as she didn’t need to kill anyone when she faced off against the Hand before.

But that had not worked out so well for her the last time around. And if she’s being honest, she wasn’t truly living for herself then either. Maybe she wasn’t under any kind of mind control then, but she had definitely been under the influence of someone else’s ideals. Her emotions had gotten the better of her, and she wound up trying to be what Matthew had wanted her to be more than she was true to herself. She tried so hard to convince herself that his vision of her and who she could be matched the reality of who she was, though as she considers it now, she understands that deep down, it didn’t. It still doesn’t.

She knows this, now. She finally sees everything so clearly, maybe for the first time in her entire life. And she is thankful for the interruption that the black haired woman provides as she bursts through the door.

Because in the amount of time it takes Elektra to glance away from Matthew to the other woman, her resolve comes rushing in at the corners of her mind, allowing her remember her purpose. And her mind is made up. She is sure that she’s acting of her own volition, and she is finally ready to face the consequences of her actions, regardless of what will happen between them when she acts.

A second later, she raises her arm to generate some momentum and thrusts the blade into Stick’s chest. She sees the bright red blood come pouring out of the gaping wound in his chest, and she gets the feeling that she isn’t just saying goodbye to Stick. And as instinct takes over and her foot connects with Matt’s chest, she feels a keen sense of loss settle in her stomach.

She lingers for a moment after she incapacitates the others, staring in Matt’s direction. She commits the details of his face and form to memory while being consumed by thoughts of what could have been- the crazy future that they had spoken of so cavalierly before things had gone so wrong against the Hand the first time. But then she turns back to the Iron Fist who is bound in the chair next to the window, remembering her assignment and the importance of fulfilling it in order to execute the rest of her plan. Because then she will finally win her freedom from the Hand and their influence. But in the back of her mind, she is disappointed to be leaving. Even though she’s almost certain there is isn’t a way they could end up together after everything that has happened, she can’t help but wish that this she’ll get to see Matthew again.

It would be nice to give him the goodbye that he deserves.

—

He dreams of ice cream. Specifically, he dreams of vanilla ice cream. And of eating it on a pleasant summer day, sitting on a bench in Central Park. He’s the only one on the bench, but somehow he knows he’s waiting for someone else to join him. But it’s the strangest thing, because he can’t quite remember who. As he waits, he continues to eat his ice cream, all while enjoying a light breeze and the soft chatter of a lazy Sunday afternoon crowd in the park. People come and go, and still he sits, expectant and eager, as he waits for this familiar stranger to appear. He waits so long that he forgets how long he has been waiting, and a mounting sense of anicety starts to creep in and darken the edges of his dream. And by the time night falls, a heavy sense of dread has settled in his stomach. With a dark sky above him, he finally looks to the empty spot on the bench to his left and realizes that whoever he was waiting for is not coming. He doesn’t know how he knows this, but he is certain it’s true. And even if he can’t make himself remember who the person is, the realization makes him desperately sad.

But then the dream evaporates as a ringing phone jolts him awake. He jumps up from the couch on which he was lying, confused and almost frantic.

Foggy rushes in, a life preserver keeping Matt from drowning in the chaos that is threatening to overtake him, and gives him the little information he has about Matt’s situation. Reality returns to Matt in waves, each new detail another piece of the puzzle as his conscious mind begins to spin up into working order.

He’s safe, for now, but possibly in some legal trouble.

He is wearing a new shirt, a t-shirt to be specific, due to the aforementioned possibility of being charged with a crime.

He’s the only one of the group here, in this room, though he can hear other heart beats- Jessica and Luke, for example- relatively close by. But he can’t place Danny. Nor can he find Stick.

Stick.

A rush of grief and despair hits him like a ton of bricks, the lingering feelings from his dream surging up and stealing his breath.

Stick is dead. Because Elektra killed him. Elektra, who may or may not be her true self, after all.

Tears well in his eyes as memories of the past hour bombard his mind in a rush.

He remembers how his heart had pounded in time to the frantic pace of his footfalls as he ran as fast as he possibly could back to their hideout. Because he knew she was there. He could hear her feet shuffling on the unfinished floor, the rhythm of her breathing, the ringing of her blade as it sliced through the air. She called to him like a siren’s song, as loud and enticing as she ever had. But he knew something was wrong. He knew that she was about to do something that could not be undone. Something he might not be able to forgive.

Time had stopped as he rushed into the room, trying to get to her to listen to him and remember who she really was. He had thought for a moment that he was getting through to her, that she was hearing him and maybe considering whether or not to stand down. And he started to breathe a sigh of relief. But then Jessica had come barreling into the room

And then it was over. The trance was broken, the moment shattered and consumed by the specter of what might have been. And in the span of a breath, Elektra thrust the blade into Stick’s chest, hurting Matt in a way he wasn’t aware he could be hurt.

His memory gets fuzzy after that, probably due to the way Elektra had kicked him unconscious with her remarkable strength. And then he had woken up here, in the precinct.

With a deep exhale and a shake of his head, he stuffs those thoughts into a box and pushes them into the furthest corner of his mind so he can focus on what he needs to do next. Because if he doesn’t? Well... if he allows himself any time to feel any of the grief that is threatening to overwhelm him, he will be of no help to anyone. But he still has to find and try, one last time, to save Elektra. And he and Jessica and Luke have to find Danny. And then the four of them have to try to save the city.

After that, maybe, _maybe_ , he’ll get a chance to properly grieve all that he has lost.

But a new thought comes riding on the heels of this one, right before he leaves the room to search out the others and start making a plan to rescue Danny. And he pauses as a chill comes over him. Because suddenly, a voice in the back of his head is asking questions that he absolutely cannot afford to think about right now.

_What is he going to do if he can’t convince Elektra of who she really is?_

And he has to fight off the worry that he’s going to be grieving a lot more than just losing Stick by the time this fiasco is finished.

-

When he wakes, alone and battered in the convent infirmary, his third conscious thought is that he was absolutely right about that. And he doesn’t think he’s ever been more disappointed to be right about something.

—

The air is cold and the wind is unforgiving as he stands over the old man’s gravestone. It’s right next to the empty grave in which he buried Elektra, however many months ago. He thinks Stick would have laughed at that. A funny kind of irony. Matt can appreciate it, too, because it feels like a way for him to say goodbye to both Stick and Elektra.

And he knows that he really needs to say goodbye to her, once and for all.

No words were spoken to confirm this idea (hell, he has exchanged no words with her since before Midland Circle collapsed on top of them), but he’s confident in the fact that she is alive. He’s also confident in the fact that she is the one who saved him. She drug him out of the rubble. She dropped him off at the convent to heal. Then she left, with no trace as to where she had gone and absolutely no communication attempts. And if he’s learned anything about her over the years, with Elektra, actions speak louder than words. Her actions are telling him, loud and clear, that she’s gone. And she won’t be coming back this time.

Strangely, he thinks he is finally coming to terms with that fact. It only took a decade and a recent slew of stressful and traumatic events for him to clearly see it. And wouldn’t Stick have plenty to say about that-

He catches the thought as quickly as he can, but he’s not quite fast enough to keep his breath from catching in his lungs as a sharp surge of grief wells up in his chest. He takes a slow, deep breath to center himself, and huffs a half-hearted laugh under his breath at how things have turned out.

But maybe it makes a certain kind of sense that he lost Stick and (for all intents and purposes) Elektra at the same time. They had become somewhat linked in his head after the revelations of the last year. Or maybe it’s just that he’s grieving all the people that knew the truth about him before he put on the suit- the last vestiges of a life that had been so very different than the one he tried to live as Matthew Murdock, Esquire of Nelson and Murdock.

He doesn’t consider this train of thought for long, though, because he simply doesn’t have the will. He’s dangerously close to tears already, and he still has to finish saying his goodbyes. There’s no reason that he needs to make himself feel any worse than he already does. With a sigh, he decides he’ll start with his goodbye for Stick.

He reaches a gloved hand into his pocket and takes out a plum-sized rock. He handles it carefully, so as not to crunch the delicate paper bracelet that he has gingerly wrapped around the stone- an anchor to secure his offering against the relentless winter wind. It seems the most fitting token to leave, as Stick was never one for sentiment or grand gestures. With a sigh, he kneels and places the rock against the gravestone. Then he bows his head for a moment and a brief prayer. And then says his goodbye.

“So, I hate to say it, but I think there’s no getting around the fact that you were right. That it was inevitable that I ended up in the fight against the Hand, one way or another. I just wish you…”

He sniffles and clenches his eyes shut to clear the tears that are welling in the corners of his eyes. With a deep breath to calm himself, he tries again.

“... I just wish it didn’t have to end like this.”

He slips off one glove and reaches out to trace along the inscription on the stone in front of him. A single, hot tear breaks through his reserves and slides down his cheek, falling to the withered grass beneath him.

“I’m gonna miss you, you son of a bitch. Even though all you ever seemed to do was make me angry. Especially lately.”

He chuckles under his breath and bows his head once more.

“I didn’t know how to say it before, but… thank you. I still can’t believe you left me like you did for so long without any explanation, but if you hadn’t walked into my life in the first place, I don’t want to know where I’d be today. So I guess what I’m trying to say is… thanks, old man.”

With a heavy exhale, he drops his hand from where it was tracing the stone and replaces his glove.

“And you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to give the suit up. I can’t. But I’m not on my own anymore. And you met my friends. You know I’ll be alright.”

A second rogue tear slides down his cheek, and he wipes it away while he whispers his final words.

“Goodbye, Stick.”

As he stands and slowly turns to the grave to his right, he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a single red orchid. He moves a few steps closer so that he can kneel and lay the orchid at the base of Elektra’s headstone. His voice soft as he murmurs his goodbye to her, lost in the wind picking up around him.

“There’s still a lot that I want to say to you, but I guess I’ll never get the chance. So I'll just say this…”

He has to blow out an exhale and clear his throat against the emotions rising in his chest.

“Thank you for saving me. I can’t imagine why you did, but still I’m grateful about it. Well… mostly. And wherever you are now, I wish you well. I hope you can truly be yourself, without anyone trying to change you. You deserve that, and you always have. And I hope you know that ... you’ll always have part of my heart. Goodbye, Elektra.”

He slips off his glove once more and traces the outline of her name on the stone in front of him as more tears stream down his cheeks. He wipes the tears away with the back of his ungloved hand and bows his head to say a prayer for her- for her safety, for her to find herself, for her to find peace. And then chokes on a sob that he tries and fails to stifle.

But he’s cried so much for her already, and she isn’t even dead anymore. She’s just… gone. On a different trajectory, doing what she has always needed to do. As much as that hurts him, he knows down to his bones that this is how things need to end between them. And if she can find peace, and she can find herself out there without him, he can’t be anything but happy for her. Because that’s all he has ever wanted for her. He had hoped, once, that she would find those things with him, but as with so many other things in his life, things didn’t work out that way.

But for a moment he forces himself to imagine her- confident and happy, unburdened by the concerns of the Chaste or the Hand, deciding for herself what to do and how to be- and he can’t help but smile at the image. Because he knows she would be beautiful, radiant, calm in a way she never could be before. And he smiles as another tear falls and he imagines the person she’ll now get to be. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed that they would never get to try to be together again, but he’d like to think he had a little something to do with helping her onto the path she is now walking. And he can be happy for doing that much. Maybe she will even remember him for that- the ways he influenced her positively. He certainly hopes so. And he knows that, regardless of what happens, he will always remember her for her ways she influenced him.

—

She keeps a healthy distance between them at the cemetery. She’s intentional about staying downwind of him, and she uses her training to mask her heartbeat. Lately, she has even taken great pains to use completely different body and hair products than she used to. She doesn’t want him to know that she’s here. Or that she’s been following him at a safe distance since he was healed enough to leave the convent.

She considered trying to screw up her courage and show up at his front door several times, just so they could clear the air between them and officially say their goodbyes. But she knows this would have only lead to more heartbreak, for the both of them. And they’ve both had quite enough of that.

So instead, she follows him like a ghost, watching him grieve the man who had been a kind of surrogate father to the both of them. But who had proven time and time again that he was not trustworthy and was interested in his own machinations more than the lives of others he claimed to care about. The tiniest sliver of her heart mourns his loss, but she quiets this feeling easily by remembering all of the hurt he caused her over the years. But she cannot so easily quite the voice that mourns for Matt, for the pain and loss that he feels with Stick’s passing, and with her absence. Truly, that may be part of the reason that she hasn’t made herself known to him. Because she doesn’t think she could bear to see him in such pain.

As he turns and lays an orchid at the headstone of the grave where she was buried before… just _before_ , she sees the tormented look on his face. And she is reminded that she chose correctly when swore not to seek him out. Because the pain she feels about leaving him is reflected on his face in this moment, and she can’t bear to have to try to explain to him why she’s doing what she’s doing. A part of her is even afraid that she’d lose her nerve to leave altogether if she were to see him again. But that wouldn’t help either of them. Or at least, not in the long run.

So she takes a breath and keeps her distance, watching him mourn her, and fighting the tears that are welling in her eyes. At one point, the wind picks up, carrying his voice to her, his goodbye on his lips. Her heart clenches at his words.

“...wherever you are now, I wish you well. I hope you can truly be yourself, without anyone trying to change you. You deserve that, and you always have. And I hope you know that ... you’ll always have part of my heart. Goodbye, Elektra.”

He pauses for a moment, wiping away fresh tears, and she is frozen in place, paralyzed as her own tears start to stream freely.

Then he stands, straightening his coat, and he slowly walks away.

She closes her eyes and exhales as one last tear falls into the wool scarf around her neck. As she watches him retreat, she allows herself one last moment to mourn him. Then, she sets her jaw and heads off in the other direction.

But she can’t fight the urge to turn back one last time, catching him just before he fades from view. And she commits the mental picture to memory- a parting gift to remind her from where she has come, and to inspire her as to where she will go. She thinks he’d appreciate that sentiment. She hopes he would, at least. But it doesn’t seem like quite enough, so she takes a deep breath and speaks her own goodbye to his retreating form, though she knows he will never hear it.

“Goodbye, Matthew. You’ll always have part of my heart, as well.”

And then she turns and walks out of the graveyard. Toward her future. The future that belongs to only her. The future she fought and killed for. The future she thinks he’d be happy for her to have. And maybe, with time, she can be happy to have it too.

 


End file.
